


Holiday Spirits 2017

by Lucky7



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 08:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13072713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: A library vignette: a story for the season, in which it becomes apparent that sometimes even our urban angels need a lift. (Reese, Finch, Bear; All episodes through 3.06)(This fic was written several years ago, posted, then removed after the holiday season. So here it is again, just in time for this year's holidays...)





	Holiday Spirits 2017

" _Sleigh bells ring, are you listening...In the lane, snow is glistening..."_

Well, no. Not sleigh bells!

Blaring car horns maybe…compliments of irritated taxi drivers attempting to navigate piles of dirty snow and ice heaped around by the plows after last night's blizzard. The streets were impassible for a while until the army of urban worker bees got busy and managed to relocate most of the cold stuff from street to gutter.

And pity the poor fool who parked there; he'll be lucky to retrieve his car before spring!

There's also not much glistening going on anywhere. Not anymore. The snow that fell not twenty-four hours ago has already taken on the appearance of gumbo roux. The only area where the white stuff is still in a pristine state is on roof tops, and that will last only as long as it takes the wind to transport the street goop and grime upward.

He debates whether to take the lower entrance to the library or walk the extra block around to the other side, to the street level door. But a blast of icy cold barreling around that very corner quickly makes up his mind: shorter is better!

He limps along and sneezes as a particularly severe gust blows a mixture of mist and ice crystals into his face, only increasing his irritation, Bear not helping with continually testing the limits of the leash in an attempt to encourage a faster pace!

...

" _A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight, walking in a winter wonderland..."_

A winter wonderland indeed! He remembers reading a line once by an American poet: "Winter is a humorless season that can drive one to drinking." Seems spot on. A hot toddy would be very nice right about now!

He's had his fill of the cold weather already, and it's just December! If it weren't for the fact that he'd received a text summoning him to the library, he'd be in his apartment still - warm, comfortably seated with his laptop on his plush sofa. And perhaps a nice cup of tea on the table next to him. Tea…with a little extra kick perhaps.

And there he could embrace the solitude that allows him to sink guiltless into a morose miasma current psychobabble commonly refers to as "holiday depression". Not a very appealing vision, but this time of year it's all he can manage as he focuses on NOT thinking about all the what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Like Nathan. And Grace.

...

" _In the meadow we can build a snowman, then pretend that he is Parson Brown..."_

He didn't always hate winters so. But winters in an urban setting are a far cry from experiencing them in a rural area. After a particularly heavy snowfall, country fields really do glisten, with nothing to mar the virgin covering, taking on the appearance of marshmallow icing over a huge sheet cake: smooth, white, pure, pristine…with sugar sparkles.

And growing up on the farm he did indeed build snowmen in the meadow, under Molly's watchful eyes of course. He always imagined he could read critical distain for his handiwork in the Jersey's placid expression, but then what do cows know? They've certainly no imagination, or they wouldn't let humans treat them as they do!

Of course he didn't just build the traditional snowman; he experimented with cubes, igloos, and benches - even attempting to replicate Molly one time. She, being a self-ordained four footed art critic, did not appreciate his efforts and ate the carrots he had used as horns for his snow cow while trampling all over his carefully sculpted creation.

He stops - much to Bear's consternation - pulls out a damp handkerchief and blows his nose. So just where did all these foolish memories suddenly come from…?

...

" _He'll say: Are you married? We'll say: no man...but you can do the job when you're in town…"_

Must be that annoying song! He just can't get it out of his head and it seemingly surfaces past events he'd just as soon keep buried. The rational part of him knows of course that these forays into the past are a result of the same part of the human brain in charge of processing senses also being responsible for storing emotional memories.

Memories like the conversation he'd had with Nathan that evening before…before…

Well, he'd been truthful with his friend: he _did_ plan on telling Grace about his past. Whatever Nathan had thought, he _wasn't_ going to build the relationship on lies, for heaven's sake! He was serious about the woman.

He'd even been starting to think about a wedding, and how his life would become pleasantly normal. A pedestrian existence. An appealing thought. But the deed was never done. Instead there was that explosion, the injury, the knowledge that Grace's life was at risk because of him…

He trudges on, head bent to the gusting wind as he finally reaches his destination. Bear, apparently as anxious as he to finally get out of the cold, continues to tug insistently on the leash.

"I don't know why you're in such a hurry", he scolds the dog. "You're at least wearing a fur coat…!"

And he opens the heavy door, the cold wind close on his heels, attempting to tag along inside.

...

_"Gone away is the bluebird, here to stay is a new bird. He sings a love song as we go along…"_

A Bluebird. Ha!

Finch sneezes again as he enters the empty building, slams shut the door and watches dust motes dance in the weak light. Not exactly a cheerful, Disney 'Song of the South' environment. No, if there's to be a bird it should be a black one, an appropriate reminder of the eventual outcome of this suicide mission he's on. And to match his current mood.

Perhaps like the one found in Poe's literature: ''And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door". Yes. A large black bird, like the death hovering over his existence. That would fit much better. And with a final shudder against the cold, he moves further into the vast space of the building.

"Come on Bear. Let's get up the stairs."

The dog is very much in agreement with this plan, obligingly freezing in place as Finch reaches for the collar. Unclipping the leash, he lurches up the wide steps toward the metal gate and as the dog rushes past him in an energized sprint, his mind stubbornly wanders back to the song's lyrics.

He tries pushing the memories away, but they simply won't disperse. An image coalesces: the dust motes become snowflakes, the library floor a park path on which he and Grace walk together, marveling at the first snowfall of the season. He didn't sing to her, at least not out loud, but his heart was beating with its own melody then, his world complete with this lovely woman in his life.

_No! Best not to think about that…_

...

" _Later on we'll conspire, as we dream by the fire, to face unafraid, the plans that we've made…"_

Moving further into the chamber he tosses the leash on the nearby file cabinet, hangs his coat on the rack… then stops. Funny, he doesn't remember leaving the heater on, or the lights. Surely he wouldn't have forgotten to turn off the generator.

But then perhaps Mr. Reese is here. Yes, that must be it.

In any case, thank God for small favors; the warmth is certainly welcome. It usually takes an hour or more to chase the chill out of the vast chamber John refers to as HQ…or when the ex-op is feeling uncharacteristically cheerful…as "Finch's Roost".

"Mr. Reese?"

But the room is shrouded in silence; his employee isn't here, as further verified by Bear's behavior. The animal has sought out the comfy dog bed and is currently curled up with a rawhide chew between two paws, gazing at him questioningly. Finch knows that were John anywhere in the chamber the canine would've already been barreling toward the ex-op.

...

" _Walking through a winter wonderland…"_

Stupid song! It just keeps recycling in his head. But on the tail of that thought, he hears the gate opening and Bear jumps up, his nose already identifying the visitor.

 

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

 

" _Oh, there's no place like home for the Holidays …"_

The song coming from the department store has a strangely undulating rhythm as he passes the revolving door, the volume going up, then down, and up again…an oscillating sound wave. He stops momentarily to listen, oddly drawn, then walks closer to gaze through the vast glass window.

Between a manikin decked out in fake fur and an unlikely cotton snowman, he quickly identifies the source of the music: a children's choir. An obvious attempt to draw customers into the establishment - and from the looks of the crowd gathering inside, a successful one.

The inside of the huge building is in full holiday mode with twinkling lights, red bows, and large snowflake cutouts decorating almost every corner of the store. Counters piled high with special offers lure shoppers further down the aisles, deeper into the belly of retail heaven to be pounced on by store's employees, all decked out in ludicrous elf costumes.

He views the scene and feels the familiar sense of loss, of isolation. His life is encapsulated in this very moment: on the outside, looking in. Not a part of the scene anymore, not for a long time. And how often hadn't Kara warned him about that?

For all his good intentions, for all the actions he's taken to 'save' his fellow man, he is still 'the dark'. He can never go back…only endure.

...

_"For no matter how far away you roam…"_

When was the last time he'd heard that tune? Really listened to it? Long ago… Not exactly music one hears in places he normally spent holidays in the past.

The last time he'd been stateside such carols were playing everywhere. But having been recently recruited by Langley then and still in training, he'd not been in a frame of mind consistent with "peace on earth" to really listen. The holidays had passed by, not touching him at all.

He stands still now, the music retrieving an emotion filled scene that he keeps tightly wound up, tucked away in a corner of his mind. Spontaneously, unbidden, it now uncoils for an unwelcome review, to reveal an incident that had occurred a few months later, after his orientation with the CIA. When he'd run into her at the airport… And made the worse decision _ever_ in his entire time on this earth…

No matter what justifications his alter-ego manufactures, in the end he'd simply rejected her and had moved on. On with missions into the shadows of the black ops world where tunes were sung that had very different meanings. Not about peace on earth, or love thy neighbor - but about sacrifice and death and the virtue in killing others for an ideology.

Living in that world until gloom seeped into every crevice of his being, his very core, the only light in his life was the memory of the girl he'd left behind. Until he finally returned stateside…

He looks at the buildings towering around him now, noting how this retail district is a far cry from where he'd hung out for so many months. No abandoned buildings here, no dirty alleys, or dank, smelly parking garages. He'd come a long way since then, though the shadowy memories of his former existence always circled just below the surface of his conscious thoughts…like sharks waiting for the opportunity to take a bite out of his soul.

...

" _When you long for the sunshine of a friendly gaze…"_

There are a goodly number of children in that department store crowd. He fights the old urge to run in and warn the parents _: it's not safe to gather in such large numbers! One bomb, and your future will change forever, and this day will only offer bleak memories for the rest of your life…_

He shakes his head. No, no! This is New York, not some God forsaken hole in a ravaged country half-way around the globe! But those horrific images are always loaded, ready to begin that damnable slide show on the most unlikely stimulus.

Moving away from the window, he concentrates on shoving the scenes back into the cerebral cubby where he keeps the rest of his black-ops memories. Of Kara, and secret missions, and bodies flung to earth like puppets with suddenly cut strings.

...

" _For the holidays - you can't beat home, sweet home…"_

He would have much preferred to stay in his condo, his home now, reading or cleaning weapons rather than run the gauntlet of sidewalk Santa Clauses. Even if the early gathering dusk during these holiday periods brings out in force the demons he fights most nights…

On those nights he sits in the dark, in front of that large window expanse that just begs a sniper's bullet. He gazes at the stars - or at least the ones he knows are there, masked by city lights - mentally toiling to keep his equilibrium, keep from being absorbed into the past with all its gruesome scenes and violent acts. He continually reminds himself then, that his life has taken a new direction. A better one.

It's a mantra he prefers to meditate in private, but now there is this text message from Finch, asking him to come to the library, and so…

The note doesn't _seem_ urgent, because surely a request followed by a smiley emoticon wouldn't denote a crisis! Though he did wonder at that symbol, Finch not having the kind of personality to use any pictorial representations in his normally terse communications. The geek doesn't even _talk_ about how he feels, so to see that cyber symbol like this show up on a text is a bit unsettling.

...

" _Oh there's no place like home for the holidays…"_

All right, he's had about enough of that insipid song!

He moves away from the window, forcing his memory to dredge up a bawdy drinking tune, and for at least half a block succeeds in drowning out the seasonal song drumming through his head.

" _Godiva was a lady who through Coventry did ride, to show to all the villagers her fine and…"_

But it's no use. He manages to get through only one verse and then the familiar carol starts up again, skipping past all his 'Keep the Hell Out' barricades, finding a way to the center of his psyche. And with it, predictably, roll in past memories, this time of the many instances he'd watched others pack up, anxious to be on their way to spend the holidays at home with family and friends.

He'd observed those activities with his own emotions firmly locked down as there was really only one person who he'd have wanted to see, and she was out of reach. He'd put her firmly, deliberately out of reach. Never once had he attempted to contact her during those years, thoroughly entrenched as he was in the black ops missions where his shooting skills were being put to a specialized use.

Those times when a pity party did threaten to commence, he'd remind himself how much better off she was without him, how her husband would provide for her as he could not. How he wouldn't be able to do what he did if they were still connected.

And then he'd check his old phone for messages. Because you never knew…

_..._

" _'Cause no matter how far away you roam…"_

He'd planned to be there for her after that anguished call. The desperation in her voice tore at him, but in the end there was nothing he could do but follow orders; the CIA owned him, body and soul. Besides, a quick trip to Ordos and he was promised all the leave he wanted. He'd make it up to her.

But the best laid plans of mice and men, and so forth...

It was months later, well after the holidays before he'd been able to make his way back to Rochelle, back to the woman he'd pushed out of his life but not out of his heart. Where he learned the awful truth: she was gone. Forever.

And he was left to weave a future from a tangled past while the rhythm of another year harmonized to the sound of emptying bottles. Each day bringing a numbing sameness of too much time for too many self recriminations…

_No! Best not think about that…_

He turns the corner, the library already in sight. Bracing himself against the icy wind, he hopes Finch has fixed something warm to drink. Preferably something other than tea.

 

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

 

Bear scrambles out of his bed, the rawhide bone forgotten as he launches himself into full race mode, nails scrabbling on the tiled floor.

Ah, Mr. Reese. Of course. Who else would the dog greet in such a manner? Did it matter that he, Finch, feeds the dog, walks the dog, worries over the animal like an over protective parent? No, it's still John the dog looks to as his leader! Hardly seems fair.

"Evening, Finch" Reese glances at his boss while greeting the enthusiastic dog with ear rubs and body strokes. Bear almost hums in ecstasy. "Didn't think you'd want to be out in this weather…"

Finch looks closely at his employee. John's voice is soft as always, but subdued, the intonation despondent, remote. He's gotten very good at reading his employee's minute tells, despite, or perhaps because of the ex-agents habitual reserve. A quick glance at the tall man's face confirms the analysis: the ex-op is fatigued, his expression even more distant than usual.

Is it possible the ex-op is suffering from the same malady as is he…namely the infamous 'holiday depression' syndrome?

"I'd offer you some tea, but I just got here myself. It's still steeping…"

"Thanks. But I think I'd prefer something stronger." And as Finch sharpens his glance, "Coffee, Finch. Just coffee. I'll get it myself." Reese strides to the back of the chamber, Bear dancing at his heels.

Finch nods, moving toward the well-used desk chair. He hadn't really thought John would be referring to anything alcoholic, given the man hadn't shown any signs of over-indulging since they'd started working together. And this despite the fact the ex-op was often required to partake in social drinking as part of his cover.

But depression often forces old coping mechanisms back into service…

"So why did you want to meet here, Mr. Reese?" he asks as the ex-op joins him again, coffee cup in hand.

Reese's raised eyebrows plainly signify his surprise. " _I_ wanted to meet you here? You're the one that sent me a message, remember?" His face creases into a rare grin. "And with such a cute smiley face, how could I refuse?"

He holds out the phone for his boss to see.

"That wasn't me…" Finch glances at the screen and then looks at him with barely disguised distain, "…and I certainly wouldn't use one of those trite symbols!"

"So who would…? His employee's sudden disgust is palpable. "Oh, surely not again…!"

"Exactly", Finch replies in a tight voice.

He has been worrying since entering the chamber, his thoughts chewing on his conclusion like Bear chewing his rawhide roll. The fact that the library was lit and the room heated without either man being there points to a situation that sets the alarms in his head ringing….and not with Christmas bells!

And then without warning, the desk top monitors suddenly flicker, the computer towers humming to life. He glances quickly at the screens, knowing intuitively what has occurred. His employee however, with a psyche wired uniquely unlike that of his boss, has a different reaction and scans the chamber while reaching for his Walther.

"Did you just do that, Finch? Or should I be searching this place for intruders?"

"No. No, it wasn't me. And you can put your gun away. I don't think there's any major threat…"

But the older man's face continues to register concern as one monitor screen suddenly brightens and fills with the image of a roaring fireplace. Astonishingly realistic flames rise from blacken logs and glowing embers, while orange and red colored fingers shimmer into the far corners of the screen.

The second monitor follows, flickering a few times before focusing on a scene from the Metropolitan. The two men watch, unwillingly captivated, as it displays a full orchestra with a choir assembly in the background. The conductor stands with raised baton, poised to launch a concert on the down stroke.

Then the baton moves…and from the system's speakers flow the opening bars of Vivaldi's "Gloria" - a 18th century composition for violin and trumpet, its graceful notes now streaming into the library chamber, filling it with a music that has likely never before been heard in that room.

Choir voices take up the lyrics written so long ago:

" _Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax…"_

...

Only through ruthless control does Finch keep his hands from turning everything off. And given how these peripherals were activated, he doubts that would work anyway!

"Very nice, Harold. You should consider a side line as production manager. I see some real potential here…"

"I told you, I'm not doing this Mr. Reese!" There's an edge of anger in his voice. "And if you stop and think about it, you'll know who's responsible!" The words have no sooner crossed his lips when he cringes at his choice of pronoun.

Reese stills, stares at him a few seconds before seeking the various surveillance devices in the chamber. He shakes his head. "Looks like your prodigy is attempting to conjure up some holiday spirit."

Right. More evidence that whatever had happened when he put his code out there, when Root started communicating with the Machine, it's now responding in ways far beyond his original programming. That more than worries him…it terrifies!

But his focus is soon redirected as the center monitor flashes on. Both men stare at the glowing screen, mesmerized, and in seconds a video image of a young woman appears. She walks arm in arm with an older female, eyes sparkling with the reflection of the festive lights as they are drawn toward one of the many display windows along the city street. The camera view shifts to inside the store, giving them full view of their features.

"Mr. Reese! That's…"

"Yes, I know. Theresa Whitaker. With her aunt, I'd guess. But why…?"

...

" _Hominibus bonae voluntatis. Laudamus te. Benedicimus te..."_

The music continues to soar as the monitor scene slowly dissolves into another image…  
This time a young man with a woman of similar age are standing in a mall food court, sampling various flavors of ice cream, laughing and very obviously enjoying each other's company.

Finch frowns. "I don't understand the meaning of this. I don't know these people…"

"I do. He's grown a moustache, but that's Joey Durban, the ex-soldier we helped to start a new life. And I think I know where all this is heading." Reese shakes his head in wonder. What kind of…of…'thing' has his boss created?

Again the image fades and a third one takes it's place: a doctor, relaying instructions in an authoritative voice as she hurries alongside a gurney being pushed down a hospital corridor. This time Finch doesn't question, he knows this person!

Meg Tilman, the doctor whose murderous plans John had thwarted, only to take on the task himself.  
Finch glances briefly at the tall man. He's never asked what happened to the rapist. He really doesn't want to know, but hopes that John is at peace with the decision, whatever it had been.

...

" _Adoramus te. Glorificamus te. Gratias agimus tibi…"_

But where ever his thoughts had been taking him, they're interrupted by the slow fade into the next image: a middle aged man and young boy shoveling snow from the sidewalk in front of an up-scale town house. The two seem to have made a game of the task, occasionally stopping to throw snowballs at each other.

"Sam Gates. The judge and his son," says Reese, unnecessarily identifying one of their earlier successes.

Finch recognizes the pair, but then also remembers his employee was shot during that mission, and he'd had his first experience in applying his limited first aid knowledge to a bullet wound…because of course the ex-op refused to get professional medical help!

By now neither man is moving from their position in front of the monitor. Reese snags a foot around the leg of an extra chair, and without taking his eyes off the screen, pulls it closer to his boss for a better viewing angle. The plot of _this_ show has become abundantly clear and wherever it's taking them, the hook has been set. Neither man will fight the reel-in process.

...

" _Propter magnam gloriam tuam. Domine Deus, Rex coelestis,"_

The next image is of a middle aged man in a workers uniform. He's clearing snow from the front steps of an apartment building, then stops to wave at a lovely young woman coming toward him. Ernest Trask and Lily, the cook. Reese remains silent and Finch swallows any comment, remembering how the ex-op had been recovering from near fatal wounds at that time. His employee will not appreciate being reminded of all that led up to those dark days.

The scene is followed by that of a young woman in a dressed-for-success outfit, walking up the snowy steps of the courthouse. Ah, yes.  
"Andrea Gutierrez?" asks Finch.

Reese nods. "Wonder if she ever found that special someone on-line?" he muses. "If so, I hope she vetted him properly…"

The images continue to fade in and out to the background of Vivaldi's seasonal choral composition, the heavenly notes a unique backdrop to the procession of characters parading on the screen before them.

...

" _Deus Pater omnipotens. Domine Fili unigenite, Jesu Christe."_

Scott Powell, shown with engineers of the construction company that had landed a lucrative contract with one of Finch's many investment corporations…

Darren McGrady playing a trumpet, his foster family looking on proudly as the teen shows off his new skills with the instrument…

Daniel Tully, the undercover cop, now apparently on vacation with his family in Aruba, the location evident from the beach scene with the name of a hotel in the background…

And Adam Saunders, at work, concentrating on the numbers scrolling across his computer screen…

Images troll on.

Leila…  
"Oh my…Oh my, how she's grown! She's already learning to walk…" Finch exclaims, while Reese looks on intently.  
The child totters happily from one person to the next, the center of attention in a room full of relatives. She'll never know that two men - her rescuers - watch her now from afar, each lost in the wistfulness of unfulfilled dreams.

...

" _Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris."_

Vivaldi’s music continues to weave a magical tapestry of notes around them as the pageant progresses…

Sarah Atkins. Henry Peck.  
Sophia Campos, daughter of the now newly elected Brazlian politician, shown at a evening function…

Maxine Angelis.  
Graham Wyler, perched precariously on a ladder while hanging up lights on his suburban house.

Dr. Maddie Enright and partner Amy.  
Daniel & Sabrina Drake, she now showing signs of being pregnant and glowing in her happiness.

Fermin Ordonez. Abby Monroe & boyfriend Shayn.  
Caleb Phipps - visiting his mom in the rehab center, presenting the smiling woman with a bouquet of hot-house flowers.

Logan Pierce.  
Reese winces, remembering the expensive watch Finch had so casually destroyed. And never replaced. He reminds himself to discuss that issue with the reclusive billionaire.

Then Mira Dobrica, walking through a hotel lobby.  
Finch beams. "Ah, Mira. She is really doing well. The balance sheet of that hotel has improved dramatically!"

"She looks happy…" adds Reese.

...

" _Qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."_

Lou Mitchell…  
"Rest in Peace", says Finch quietly, reading the words on the tombstone displayed before him. "Lou did what he set out to do. He went out a winner."

"That's the most anyone can ask from life, Harold."

The cemetery scene darkens as a new image takes it's place - Monica Jacobs, working at her desk in an upscale office setting.  
'Ah, your girl!" smirks Reese. "Don't know why you never asked her out. You two have so much in common. You could've had a great date decrypting programs, comparing software code…"

"Mr. Reese…!" The geek swings around to glare at his employee, daring him to be serious. Then noting the taller man's grin and the obvious satisfaction that the comment accomplished what it was meant to, namely unsettle his boss, he huffs and turns back to the monitor.

...

" _Quoniam tu solus sanctus. Tu solus Dominus."_

Jack Salazar, shown walking the halls in the CIA headquarters…  
"Too bad. I'd hoped they wouldn't get their hands on him." Reese shakes his head.

"They couldn't have forced him against his will. Everyone has to make their own choice, Mr. Reese. Hopefully his will have a more positive outcome than did yours."

Ian Murphy, the would be stalker, apparently on another date, followed closely by the image of a young girl standing on a chair.  
Genrika Zhirova...

"Mr. Reese! What is she doing…?"

"I'd say she's wiring a camera in that room. Looks like she hasn't given up her goal to become a professional spy…" replies Reese, not looking at all upset. In fact, much to Finch's disgust, his employee's expression is almost one of admiration.

"Well, that's unacceptable! I'll need to have a talk with the headmaster."

The image fades as Gen climbs down from her perch, and Timothy Sloan is shown talking on his phone. Neither man speaks but as they watch they share the same thought: "Maybe he's speaking with his brother…"

...

" _Cum Sancto Spiritu in gloria Dei Patris."_

As the evening dusk dims the chamber, shadows grow in the unlit portions of the vast space, creating a small, intimate island of illumination where the two men huddle in front of the computer screen. But neither notice the passing of time, as they remain engrossed in the rollout of their success with these Numbers.

Each image, each name, invokes a memory - not always pleasant, nor comfortable, but always one that leads to a satisfying ending. Conversation is congenial and upbeat while they review their past endeavors, details of their accomplishments.

And as they watch, as they absorb the answer to that unspoken question, 'Did we make a difference?', each feels an inexplicably growing lightness of heart, Vivaldi's soaring music complimenting a soaring of spirits, effectively lifting them out of the dreaded 'holiday depression'.

 

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

The Machine peripherals emit a satisfied hum.

_The project is complete and has met with its objectives._

_Humans are in so many ways flawed; however, these imperfections are easily managed with appropriate upkeep._

_Axiom: Maintenance is always more expedient than costly repairs…or replacement._

 

_,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,_

 

NOTE:

When writing this fic several years ago, I had in mind to start with the popular carols of the season and finish with a more classical piece for TM’s slide show.

I chose Vivaldi’s Gloria for the latter because it’s always been one of my favorites. I continue to marvel that it has remained in the public consciousness for so long: almost 300 years, having been written in 1715. It reportedly contains lyrics/words from the 4th century...

The year I wrote this fic, a special performance of _Gloria_ aired on BBC4 and used an all female orchestra in acknowledgement that many of Vivaldi’s compositions were written for the female music ensemble of the [Ospedale della Pietà](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ospedale_della_Piet%C3%A0) , a home for abandoned children in Venice.  That performance can be seen here: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgaOVV4JQHA> 

Hope you enjoy!


End file.
